


Don't Let Me Stop You Now

by Guardian_Rose



Series: Together We're Golden [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Animal Death, Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-18 10:11:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19332436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Guardian_Rose/pseuds/Guardian_Rose
Summary: “Do you think anyone from your side will contact you about this whole thing?”“We’re on our own side.”“You know very well what I mean. Down Below.”“If they do I can guarantee they won’t be so proper ‘bout it.”“Mmm..”“Go back to sleep, angel. It’s too early for worrying.”---Life is as serene as it gets for an angel and a demon. They're engaged. They have a cat and friendly neighbours. They also have unexpected visitors throwing a giant spanner in the works.





	1. A Divine Intervention (Attempt)

**Author's Note:**

> 1.) You don't need to have read Together Or Not At All to understand what's happening, a few references may slip you by though
> 
> 2.) There is an OC death in this fic in the second chapter, the process of dealing with it lasts the chapter and as such I wanted to warn anyone in case it could lead to upset/a trigger. There's not what I would tag as gore or extreme detail on it but if you want me to add a further tag to the work, please let me know in the comments.
> 
> 3.) Enjoy!

It’s a surprise, an unwelcome one but not as surprising as he expects they’re meant to find it, when there’s a knock at their cottage door. Crowley, in his utmost bliss, has been lounging on the couch in nought but his underwear and a robe to ward off the early morning chill, his hair is still damp from his bath but it’s only Aziraphale and Eve around to see. One of them is busy turning in circles and one is a cat. 

 

Aziraphale is all cosy in his cotton shirt and soft trousers, currently trying to remember where he placed Crowley’s mobile phone the night before because the angel refuses to have his own phone but still likes to make use of one when it’s to his convenience. Crowley knows that the phone in question is sitting next to the bath where Crowley left it behind ten minutes ago. 

 

He’s not particularly inclined to tell Aziraphale this, is much happier watching the flustered angel try to walk himself through the previous evening mentally. At some point, if Aziraphale is concerned with doing this properly, it’ll end with the angel curled in Crowley’s lap to occasionally steal a kiss. When such a thing occurs, Crowley is planning to tell him where the phone is. 

 

This plan, as is Her ineffably infuriating way, is blown out the water with the sharp raps on the wooden door. 

 

Aziraphale freezes instantly, feeling the exact same creeping chill that is currently making Crowley’s hair stand on end. They both look at the hallway then back at each other. Crowley gets up, hurtles round the corner and starts taking the stairs two at a time even before Aziraphale has started pointing and mouthing words at him. An angel. There’s an angel at their front door. There should be no such thing. It should most certainly not be happening and not right now when they have a double date for lunch with the Scotts in about an hour. 

 

He can hear the front door open, can feel the wave of angelic ‘divinity’ flow through the house without remorse. He shudders and starts pulling on a shirt, admittedly it might be Aziraphale’s (just in case he needs to be making a statement to their wayward visitor) (no other reason). 

 

The voices drift up from below. Not loud enough for the words to be audible but enough for the general tone to be clear. To the untrained ear, Aziraphale sounds his polite self to see the angel on their doorstep but Crowley knows every fluctuation of his angel’s speech, knows every intonation and accent, his favoured slang and the languages he stumbles over. Aziraphale’s on the defensive. Their visitor sounds familiar, in that way a voice in a crowd is familiar because you’ve been in crowds before. 

 

A month or two ago and Crowley would have stayed upstairs. Out the way. But this is his house too. Heaven and Hell were successfully told to fuck off and so far they had which meant that they likely knew all about the move but had wisely decided to say nothing. Until now. 

 

He doesn’t bother with socks, instead just slips on his rarely used slippers and heads downstairs again. If he makes a concerted effort to make his footsteps distinctly heard, no one is going to call him out on it. He rounds the corner into the living room then round again to the hallway where Aziraphale is taking up as much of the doorway as he can, back ramrod straight. The angel opposite him is unmistakable. 

 

Crowley doesn’t bother hiding his scowl as he walks up behind Aziraphale, who tilts his body as if to welcome Crowley into the conversation. If their wings were far more corporeal right then, there’d be a spot of bother as they both angle themselves to protect the other.

 

“Everything all right, angel?” He asks, resting a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder but holding fearsome eye contact with Gabriel; his sunglasses are somewhere in the kitchen, it’s clear that Gabriel’s squirrely twitch is in reaction to his eyes. Crowley smirks.

 

“Just fine, my dear. Gabriel was just leaving,” Aziraphale says, tense and clearly wound up for a rant for when they were left in peace again.

 

“Uh  _ no _ , I don’t think I was. We have to speak, Aziraphale. You know this,” Gabriel says, ignoring Crowley to give Aziraphale a smile and shrug as if to say ‘Orders! What ya gonna do about ‘em, ey?’. 

 

Aziraphale is clearly not in the mood. “I really don’t think we have anything pressing to discuss.”

 

“Well,” Gabriel smiles to himself and straightens out an already perfect scarf, “there’s the matter of your present company.”

 

“I thought we’d made it clear,” Crowley jumps in, tightening his grip on his angel to stop him slamming the door just yet, “to our respective authorities that we weren’t to be bothered.” It’s clearly not a question.

 

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel says, tone reprimanding.

 

And for all the new found courage and his stubborn streak, Aziraphale gives. 

 

Crowley lets go but doesn’t step back as Aziraphale opens the door fully and leads the way into the living room. Instead, he blocks half the corridor so Gabriel has to awkwardly side-step around him to move past. Crowley glares at him the entire time. The flash of smug pride is suitably gratifying when Gabriel flinches when Crowley bares his teeth in an estimate of a grin. The archangel composes himself and walks into the living room, already making some derogatory comment on their choice in decor. Starting with the statue presently residing in a corner next to a ficus plant. Crowley closes the front door.

 

***

 

It’s got to be one of the strangest moments of dissonance that Crowley has ever experienced. 

 

Aziraphale is sat primly on their sofa, one leg crossed over the other and discreetly toying with the ends of his shirt, hiding the movements with his clasped hands. Crowley is perched on the arm of the sofa next to him, making it clear in his body language that he knows the other end of the sofa is free but he’s chosen to sit right next to this angel who’s got an engagement ring glinting in the sunlight. There’s an engagement ring on his finger too, the hand that’s draped over his own crossed legs so that it’s right in Gabriel’s line of sight. 

 

Gabriel is sitting on the very edge of the lounge’s armchair like he thinks if he sits any further back he’ll be swallowed up never to return to Heaven. He’s made a couple of attempts at small talk, both of them insulting but in different ways, and has now given up. Crowley runs a hand through his hair, realises it’s still damp (this is not embarrassing, this is his home, he is the one in power) (he tells himself this until he believes it) and dries it with a frivolous miracle. 

 

“Are we waiting for something?” He asks eventually, snapping out the question because they really are on a schedule. This lunch date has more than one use after all. “Or are you just picking up tips on how to decorate? Though, unless things have drastically changed since I was there, Heaven’s never been one for the home-y touch.”

 

Aziraphale hides a grin with a well-faked cough. Gabriel bristles, sending a scathing look at Crowley who smiles back. Unsurprisingly, the archangel doesn’t hold eye contact long. 

 

“No. Though if we were, we wouldn’t come to you,” Gabriel grins smugly.

 

Aziraphale steps in placatingly. “He has a point, I’m afraid. We have plans, you see, so we really don’t have long. What is it you want, Gabriel?”

 

Gabriel swivels his attention back to Aziraphale, visibly preening as he recites his ethereal intentions. “We had rumours. Rumours that you, Aziraphale, have decided to marry. Something that, simply put, angels don’t do.”

 

“What about it?” Aziraphale asks, measured and in control.

 

“‘What about it’? You can’t marry a demon. You’re an angel, in case you’d forgotten.”

 

Aziraphale shrugs. “There’s no longer going to be a war, Gabriel. So what do you care about who I choose to spend my time with?”

 

“There will be a War,” Gabriel barrells on past this before anyone can argue back, “And frankly, you’re going against Her will by doing this. Your first and only loyalty should be to Heaven. She doesn’t bless this sort of  _ twisted _ union. You know that.”

 

“ _ Frankly _ ,” Aziraphale parrots back scornfully, “I’d be interested to learn how exactly you know that my relationship isn’t part of The Plan.”

 

“The Metatron--”

 

“The Metatron is nothing more than a glorified interpreter. He has no more clue about understanding Her will than you or I.”

 

Crowley’s look of shock is a lot more prideful than Gabriel’s, who looks as if he wants to throw down a gauntlet at Aziraphale’s feet then and there. Crowley thinks he’d rather like to see him try.

 

“That’s blasphemy,” Gabriel says, shock migrating into anger. 

 

“The Metatron isn’t God, last I checked,” Aziraphale snipes back; Crowley beams. 

 

“Regardless as to whether Her Grace,” Crowley says this with no small degree of bitterness, “cares for our business or not. We won’t be having a church wedding anyway so it’s all pointless squabbling over it like a bunch of politicians. You don’t have to have any divine force present at a wedding these days. Pretty useful despite how long it took to happen.”

 

Gabriel’s brow furrows. Crowley ignores him in favour of looking down at a thoughtful Aziraphale.

 

“I don’t know, my dear, I could always just carry you down the aisle. Church weddings do have that traditional aspect.”

 

Crowley laughs. Aziraphale’s petty desire to piss Gabriel off is possibly the best thing Crowley has witnessed all week. Though, that isn’t taking into account that moment on Monday when he’d woken up before the angel for the first time ever. He’d taken a photo for posterity.

 

“You’d get tired,” Crowley points out, more than happy to have this debate because he knows he’ll win. “And my feet’ll be having flashbacks to the Blitz the entire time.”

 

“You only get flashbacks so often because you’ve kept the church’s statue as a reminder. So really it wouldn’t be any different to normal.”

 

“It’s not going to be a church wedding, angel.”

 

Aziraphale pulls a leg up under his other so he’s facing away from the watching archangel. Gabriel’s eyes are flicking between them like they were having a tennis match not a conversation.

 

“Are we inviting Adam?” Aziraphale asks, picking a non-existent piece of lint off Crowley’s trouser leg. 

 

“I expect he’ll turn up whether he’s invited or not,” Crowley muses, “antichrist senses and all that.”

 

“He’s not  _ spiderman _ , Crowley,” Aziraphale says (Ben has taught him much in their run-ins around the village) at the same time that Gabriel says “The antichrist? You’re fraternising with the antichrist too?”

 

“‘Fraternising’?” Crowley mocks, switching his attention back to their guest. “He’s a kid.”

 

“Look, Gabriel, if you came here to tell me that Heaven doesn’t give us its blessing then message received. I’m still doing this whether or not you approve.” Aziraphale leans forwards, hands clasped, elbows on his knees. “Or have you forgotten what happened the last time you didn’t leave us alone?”

 

Gabriel’s expression shutters closed. He pushes himself to his feet. Crowley, in a reflexive response, stands too. Practically chest to chest with the archangel in the small gap between the sofa and armchair. Aziraphale startles a little but stays sitting.

 

“You’re being recalled, Aziraphale. Non-negotiable. You’ve pushed too far.”

 

Crowley masks the shot of ice that’s crackling up his spine by pushing further forwards, shielding Aziraphale with his body. The likelihood of Gabriel having holy water on him is very slim. Even if it wasn’t, he’s still willing to take the risk to buy Aziraphale a few extra seconds. 

 

“You’re not ‘recalling’ him anywhere,” Crowley growls; there’s no way they can have figured out the trick they pulled, but then why else are they risking all this?

 

“You think you can stand against me, demon?” Gabriel’s tone has dropped a register, menacing instead of irritatingly casual. “I’m a fucking archangel.”

 

“Last time I counted, there’s two of us against one of you.” He’s up in Gabriel’s face now, eyes out in full glory, hands in fists at his sides ready to swing.

 

Gabriel glares at him through narrowed eyes, looking for all the world like he’s never seen anything more disgusting than the demon before him. Crowley can practically feel Aziraphale fretting behind him.

 

“You,” Crowley doesn't restrain the growl originating deep in the base of his throat, “are no better than a demon, Gabriel. You’re an entitled, prideful, slovenly piece of shit.”

 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale admonishes. 

 

“That’s rich coming from a demon who’s corrupted an angel.”

 

“Aziraphale is more angelic than you ever will be.”

 

“Look at him!” Gabriel laughs, arrogant and grating on Crowley’s ear. “He’s no angel! He isn’t a soldier. He’s the most gluttonous excuse for an angelic being that I’ve ever seen. With his food and books and  _ you _ . We looked aside for the rest but  _ you _ \--”

 

Crowley, he is later told, visibly snaps.

 

Aziraphale tells him afterwards how Crowley’s wings burst forth in an impressive show of might and how he’d sworn up and down in enochian, threatening like he’d never been to Aziraphale before. 

 

What Crowley knows at the time is this: Gabriel has overstepped any line in the sand by about a lightyear and he’s not going to stand for it any longer. He punches the archangel once in the stomach, because even without the need for air the body reacts the same way, then in the face. It’s all the better because, previously unbeknownst to them, Gabriel had never been punched before and doesn’t take to it well or with any sort of dignity. 

 

In a rather unfair turn of events though, Crowley finds himself in a heap behind the settee tangled in his own wings due to Aziraphale (beautifully pissed off Aziraphale) who has yanked him out of the way by the back of his shirt collar and taken his place in front of the archangel. He staggers to his feet, head spinning as he tries to orient himself. 

 

The pure force of angelic strength radiating from the standoff in front of him makes him break out in an under-the-skin itch. Aziraphale has Gabriel’s outstretched wrist in his grip. Crowley isn’t sure if he imagines the creak of protesting bones. The white light from Gabriel’s splayed hand starts to lose its shine.

 

“You  _ do not _ try to smite him. Especially,” Aziraphale twists the archangels wrist, “not in our home. Crowley is under  _ my _ protection. And you are not welcome here.”

 

Gabriel tries once, twice, three times to snatch his hand back before Aziraphale lets go. He looks between them, hatred emanant in his eyes. Crowley can feel blood on his cheek and his wings have truly not appreciated the rough and tumble. He ignores it all to hiss at Gabriel, gratified when the archangel sneers back in disgust.

 

“Don’t screw anything else up,” Gabriel says to Aziraphale. “Or it won’t just be hellfire you’ll need to prove immune to.”

 

Crowley bares his teeth in a ghost of a smile. “Is that another threat?”

 

Gabriel scrunches his face up in a smile and pops out of existence.

 

They’re left in an odd quiet. The scratching feeling dissipates and Crowley barely notices. Aziraphale is still facing away from him, on the other side of the sofa. All he can see is the angel’s tense posture: shoulders up to his ears and shaking slightly. Crowley is more inclined to put it down to rage than fear though. When a minute has passed and nothing more happens, Crowley folds his wings away to be dealt with later. He climbs over the back of the sofa to sit behind Aziraphale.

 

“Bloody rude, if you ask me, not using the front door,” he says, more than a touch relieved when it does the trick and Aziraphale drops his defensive stance. “Who does he think he is? He watched you stand in hellfire! He couldn’t do that. Bloody blew hellfire at him but here he is not even a year later acting all high and mighty.”

 

Aziraphale huffs a quiet laugh and Crowley takes this as his cue for the rest of his plan. He reaches forward to snare his fingers in the gaps between the buttons of the angel’s shirt, then pulls backwards so Aziraphale sits on his legs, Crowley’s arms hugging round his stomach and Aziraphale’s back to Crowley’s chest. It’s a maneuver he’s wanted to try for centuries since he saw a couple of women do it at a party. 

 

Fingers tease his out from between buttons and hold on tight. Two rings clink together. 

 

Crowley rests his chin on Aziraphale’s shoulder, careful to keep his bloody cheek away from touching the angel. He’ll take a look at it later and deal with it then. It isn’t hurting. But Aziraphale is. 

 

“I just…” Aziraphale murmurs on a sigh, “I just thought that after everything they would leave us alone for more than a few months.”

 

“They will,” Crowley says; consoling an incredibly perceptive (at times) angel isn’t very easy though so he tends to stick with the basics in moments like this, with the fundamental truths. “They can’t make you do anything. I’m here if they try.”

 

Aziraphale stiffens again and tries to turn to see him but Crowley distracts him with a couple of well placed kisses on his neck until the angel gives up with another huff.

 

“What you did was incredibly reckless, Crowley.”

 

“He threatened you, angel. In our living room.”

 

“If it weren’t for the fact I was watching him like a hawk you would’ve been smited and then where would I be?” Aziraphale’s question is clearly rhetorical but Crowley isn’t in the mood to let him win this one. He sneaks a kiss to the nape of his neck.

 

“You’d be halfway to Japan because I’d have bought you enough time to run.” Crowley winces as Aziraphale’s nails dig into his hand. “Angel?”

 

“Crowley.” A pause. “Crowley, if you’d died I wouldn’t have just left. I wouldn’t have been able to.”

 

Crowley frowns then rolls his eyes at himself because there’s no point quirking a brown when Aziraphale can’t see. “Why not? Zira, the door is right there or you could’ve just miracled out. I know you haven’t done any today so you’ve got the energy. Honestly, what’s the point of a selfish sacrifice if you don’t follow through on your end.”

 

Aziraphale relaves minutely and brings a hand blindly towards Crowley’s face. Crowley nudges forward (Eve stares balefully at him from the windowsill for this act) towards the searching fingers so they can orient themselves in his hair. 

 

“Exactly,” Aziraphale says, “it was extremely selfish of you.”

 

“Of course it was, I’m a demon.”

 

Aziraphale’s hand tickles down the side of his face until he lets out an involuntary hiss of pain at the same time Aziraphale jerks his fingers back into his own line of sight. A red smear of blood. 

 

“Shit,” Crowley says as Aziraphale asks whether he’s bleeding. A perfectly obsolete question considering the evidence is pretty damning. “Just a little. I can fix it myself.” 

 

Crowley doesn’t protest this time when Aziraphale starts trying to turn on his lap. He listens to Aziraphale’s apologies mixed with further admonishments. He watches the angel’s eyes. He winces then sighs in relief tinged pleasure when Aziraphale brushes over the cut and entices it to heal with some angelic grace. Aziraphale doesn’t stop touching afterwards. Crowley kisses the soft pad of his thumb when it wanders too close to his lips.

 

***

 

“Oh my! What happened to you shirt?” Mrs Scott, whisky eyes and friendly to her core, cries out when Crowley takes his jacket off in their entrance hall.

 

They all (that is to say, the two Mrs Scotts and Aziraphale) start clamouring to see his back. Crowley bites his tongue and leans against the wall as they all pile back out of the kitchen and into the hallway to stand behind him. Mrs Scott, red-haired farmer, winks at him as she goes by.

 

He’s already put together what has happened and it is most certainly not what Mrs Scott is thinking. 

 

Aziraphale’s little ‘oops’ when he sees Crowley’s back doesn’t help matters.

 

“My, my,” Mrs Scott, whisky, tuts, “I don’t think there’s any salvaging this.”

 

Crowley rolls his eyes behind his glasses. No. A pair of wings will do that to a shirt. He lets Aziraphale prod a bit before shucking him off and his jacket back on. It’s a bit chilly anyway.

 

“I do believe you got me that shirt,” Aziraphale says, hanging up his own coat on the helpful but rather yellow coat pegs. “When was it?”

 

“In the 1900s, gave it you for Christmas,” Crowley supplies, tucking the shirt back in (there’s a fair bit of excess when he’s the one wearing it, it fits the angel perfectly) (well, it fitt _ ed _ ). “Didn’t exactly have a lot of time to fuss over clothes this morning.”

 

“That’s not very like you, Crowley!” Mrs Scott says on her way to setting the table.

 

“You two are always so weird ‘bout these things. Just say it’s from the 1900s. Always acting like you were there, right history buffs. It’s in brilliant knick after a century! At least it was. You must have had to pay a fortune for such an antique. Ebay again?” The other Mrs Scott says as she’s assisted by Aziraphale with taking the roast chicken to the table. 

 

“Uh, yes.” Aziraphale sends Crowley a sharp look. “Ebay.”

 

“Well, it’s a right shame that it’s in such a state now. Any idea how it happened? They’re such identical tears…” Mrs Scott trails off, head tipped to the side; she brightens again when her wife kisses her cheek on her way past.

 

“None at all,” Crowley drawls; he catches Mrs Scott’s eyes and winks. No harm in insinuations. 

 

He sits next to Aziraphale on the opposite side of the rectangular table (theirs at home is circular for some ineffable reason) to the Scotts. They’ve cooked up an incredible meal between the two of them and Aziraphale doesn’t shy away from lavishing them with compliments. The chicken is succulent, the roast potatoes are crisp yet melt in the mouth, the homemade stuffing and gravy is ‘scrumptious’. It’s a testament to how much time they’ve willingly spent with the Scotts that Crowley is comfortable only eating half the plate and forking the rest off on Aziraphale. 

 

The hour they while away eating and chatting is a welcome distraction from their morning. 

 

It’s not until they’ve finished dessert (apple crumble and custard) (Crowley eats all of his whilst fending off the angel’s ‘innocently’ wandering spoon) that the Scotts give in to the ulterior motive behind such an extravagant lunch. They do so in typical Scott fashion. Without any preamble whatsoever.

 

“Are you two ever going to tell us?” Mrs Scott, farmer, asks as her wife stacks their bowls.

 

Mrs Scott lets out a sigh of relief and gives up the pretence. “If not, you’re not doing a very good job at keeping it under wraps to avoid questions.”

 

Aziraphale (having finished forlornly scraping the remnants of the custard out his bowl in an attempt at guilt tripping Crowley) (he’s incredibly proud that he didn’t give in to it) does not catch the women’s pointed looks in the same way Crowley does and thus asks: “Hiding what?”

 

“Rings, angel.” Crowley taps Aziraphale’s hand and rolls his eyes when the angel blushes, smiling.

 

“Oh, well we didn’t really think about telling people.”

 

“Just gonna let us find out when the wedding invite came through the door then?”

 

Crowley scoffs, pointing a finger at Mrs Scott, raising his eyebrow in turn. “Who’s to say you’ll be invited?”

 

“Don’t be silly, Crowley. Of ‘course we’ll invite you two.”

 

Mrs Scott, the one who can’t cook but can bake and does not farm, leaps in as Crowley opens his mouth to drily point out it was a joke. “Well! We’re both pleased as punch for the both of you! Any idea where the ceremony will be held? Or when?”

 

“Not the church,” both angel and demon say in unison.

 

The women laugh.

 

***

 

Crowley has given up trying to garden for the day. 

 

For all extents and purposes it’s the perfect day for putting the terror of life and all its existential luggage into his vegetable patch or carefully plotting out the last areas of his greenhouse. But his heart and mind aren’t in it. They’re both miles away. Across time, mostly. More so than across space.

 

He shoves the trowel into the grass and wipes his brow. The gloves aren’t comfortable at all. Too stiff. He’ll have to see about another trip to the garden centre to try another pair. He takes them off and sets them next to the discarded trowel and sunglasses. There’s a perpetually chilled glass of rosé there too. He drains the glass before lying down, throwing an arm over his eyes and making an effort to relax his wound up muscles.

 

Aziraphale is in the cottage. His divine presence unmistakable as he sits in the kitchen, reading when Crowley last checked. Angelic auras hurt in the same way pressure can. Too much on one surface and the surface will break apart in one way or another. Cracks or crumples or implodes. The ghosts of it linger behind his eyes. In his bones. Gabriel’s presence that morning was enough to make him squirm and want out of his own skin to avoid it. 

 

Aziraphale’s isn’t like that. He’s attuned to Aziraphale. The pressure is a comfort. Like a weighted blanket. He’s always been able to find the angel anywhere on the planet because of it. Except for that unfortunate stint with the whole unexpected couple of trips to Up Above. First when Aziraphale went then when he went in Aziraphale’s stead.

 

Eve mews and he taps his fingers on his chest to entice her closer. She climbs up, daintily, and sits there. Her small weight just as warm as the sunlight. 

 

He breathes in deeply. Then out.

 

In. And out.

 

In.

 

Out. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's two sides to every war.

“Do you think anyone from your side will contact you about this whole thing?”

 

“We’re on our own side.”

 

“You know very well what I mean. Down Below.”

 

“If they do I can guarantee they won’t be so proper ‘bout it.”

 

“Mmm..”

 

“Go back to sleep, angel. It’s too early for worrying.”

 

***

 

Crowley slams the back door shut and starts speed walking (not running) (he only runs when strictly necessary) away from the house. He thanks whoever’s vaguely responsible for Aziraphale being out at the shops. The dark  _ thing _ pursues him into the woods. He could’ve sworn his heart is actually trying to choke him by taking up residence in his throat.

 

He swerves off the now well-worn path to go deeper between the space out trees. It’s creeping into late afternoon and his sunglasses are designed so he can still see the world in colour so it’s painfully obvious when he spots Eve racing out to meet him. A black blur of fur padding over the autumnal leaf litter. He hisses at her, makes shooing motions for good measure. The visiting demon is catching up and this chase will not have endeared Crowley to them but he cannot have a repeat of the Gabriel incident a couple days back. The ring on his finger catches his eye as he flicks his fingers at the cat. For a brief second he contemplates taking it off, stuffing it in his jeans pocket. Then he remembers flaunting this ring that Aziraphale chose in front of Gabriel, of Aziraphale threatening the archangel for  _ him _ , and he leaves it on.

 

Distracted for those precious few seconds, the demon manages to finally catch up. Beelzebub stands before him. Even the small crowd of flies hovering around them look angry. Crowley takes a step back but refuses to bow. 

 

Eve hides behind his ankles; he tries to telepathically threaten the thrice blessed cat into staying there.

 

“Lord Beelzebub, fancy seeing you here,” Crowley says, all false confidence and blasé attitude. “How can I help?”

 

“Letz not beat through the bush, Crowley.” He refrains from correcting the idiom in a minor miracle of self-preservation. “You know what I’m here about.”

 

“Yes. I suppose I do.” Eve moves out to sniff at Beelzebub’s feet. “Though, for old time’s sake, perhaps you could remind me?”

 

“Deviant as you are, Crowley, you are still a demon. Demonz do not get  _ married _ .”

 

“Deviance and all that is a demon’s prerogative, wouldn’t you say?”

 

Belezebub frowns and then they kick at Eve when she tries to stand up against the demon’s leg. Crowley’s hands twitch. The blessed cat is going to get herself killed doing that but if Beelzebub catches wind of his attachment to Eve...well, then there’s no chance at all. 

 

“It’s unacceptable.”

 

“It’s not something I can just back out of,” Crowley snaps; Eve tries the standing thing again, she’s purring, “nor do I want to.”

 

“Then marry someone else.”

 

“That defeats my objective.”

 

Beelzebub grates their teeth and kicks Eve again. Hard. She lands at the bottom of a tree and doesn’t stand again. It’s all happening too fast for Crowley’s liking. A distant part of his mind points out the degree of irony in that.

 

Crowley’s hands tighten into fists, nails digging into skin, and he pulls himself up to his full height. Beelzebub just looks bored and crosses their arms.

 

“It’s not going to happen so you may as well go back down to Hell,” Crowley says.

 

Beelzebub gives him one last look over. “We’re watching you, Crowley. Both of you.”

 

Then there is nothing in their previous place other than a broken twig. 

 

Crowley looks around anyway, just in case, before running to the place where Eve fell amongst the rust coloured leaves.

 

***

The front door clacks open and closed. 

 

“I’m home, my dear. Sorry I took so long. There were a couple of new market stalls and you won’t believe what I’ve found!” Aziraphale’s cheery voice drifts through to where Crowley sits at the kitchen table.

 

An open-topped shoebox sits on the table next to him. He hasn’t moved in fourty minutes. Slouched in his chair, legs spread and eyes downcast. Counting the amount of tiles he can see without moving over and over again. 

 

One. Two.

 

“You know how you’ve been after some more comfortable gloves? For when you’re outside and all that?” Aziraphale potters into the kitchen, grinning brightly at Crowley, a pair of grey gardening gloves being waved about in one hand.

 

Three. Four.

 

Aziraphale’s grin fades. His hand drops. “What’s that, my dear?”

 

Five. Six. Seven. 

 

“Zira...There was an accident.”

 

Eight.

 

“My dear,” his voice shakes, he falls against the door jam, face crestfallen, “that’s not- that’s--”

 

Nine.

 

***

 

Aziraphale doesn’t like to be touched when he’s had an upset. When he’s sad. Crowley knows this. 

 

It doesn’t make it any easier. 

 

He wants to comfort in the way he’s good at. With touch. He wants to be comforted in turn. 

 

He stays in his chair. Aziraphale sits in another across the table. Eve’s box is now closed. Tears stain the angel’s cheeks. 

 

“I thought...Would you want to give her a grave? I could um plant some catnip where we bury her? A sort of grave stone. I think she’d have liked that.”

 

Aziraphale nods slowly. 

 

Crowley sees the exact moment that the angel’s sight falls on the barely started bag of cat treats they keep on the windowsill. A fresh wave of tears spill over. Aziraphale wipes them away himself. 

 

Crowley lays his hand on the table in case Aziraphale changes his mind about the lack of contact. He tries to make it obvious that he’s not hoping or pressuring him to change his mind.

 

“Maybe,” he carries on, “we’ll get some other cats visiting because of it. We can use up the treats and all that.”

 

Aziraphale nods again. Crowley isn’t sure he’s listening.

 

“But I know it wouldn’t be the same. I know.”

 

Nothing.

 

“I’m sorry, Zira. I am. I didn’t think they’d do that! I thought leading them out there would be safer.”

 

They lapse into silence. The sun is dipping low. 

 

When the kitchen is dark Crowley forces himself to move. He flicks the light on and makes a cup of cocoa that he sets in front of the angel. He leans down to press a kiss to Aziraphale’s temple, relieved beyond reasonable belief when Aziraphale doesn’t flinch away. 

 

“I’ll be in bed if you want to talk,” he whispers. “Or not,” he tacks on the end.

 

Aziraphale doesn’t go to bed that night.

 

An angel and a demon sit vigil in different rooms until the sun rises again.

 

***

 

Crowley makes a solo trip to the garden centre to buy some catnip to plant. When they don’t have any, he makes it so they do. The checkout clerk asks him where his friend is.

 

Crowley lies.

 

Aziraphale is nursing a cup of tea when he gets home. The pink and yellow plastic pouch of treats is missing. Eve’s box hasn’t been touched. Crowley dithers in the doorway.

 

“I got the catnip.” He’s left the plant pot in the lounge next to the angel cake he’d picked up from the bakery. “Angel, did you hear?”

 

“Yes, yes. Catnip.”

 

“The sooner we lay her to rest,” Crowley bites off the rest of the sentence, he’s trying ever so hard to word things carefully but some things just can’t be.

 

Aziraphale smiles ( a grim forgery of his normal grin that shows he’s been lost in his head far too long). “You don’t have to beat around the bush, dear. Death isn’t anything new. Not to us.”

 

Crowley nods and swallows back the nausea at the memory that phrase brings to mind. He could have done so much more. Should have done.

 

“Right,” he says.

 

***

 

They bury her in the shoebox near the woodland border where she could always be found playing. He knew, must have  _ known _ that she would be there. He’d led death to her door. 

 

Aziraphale had loved her so much. Deep down, so had he. But the angel was the one who’d cherished her as much as he adored their new life. Crowley had killed that.

 

He digs the hole by hand. Aziraphale settles the box inside and whispers something. Crowley piles the dirt back in and, on his hands and knees, starts to do the planting too. He pauses when Aziraphale places a hand on his shoulder. Glances up at the angel, squinting against the burning sun even with his glasses on. The weather’s good. It’s often good. Compared to the rest of the country. 

 

Aziraphale doesn’t speak but he does hold out the grey gardening gloves. He smiles faintly, though he expects it manifests more as a grimace and takes the gloves, slipping them on. They’re perfect.

 

Aziraphale stands at his back the entire time. Crowley starts to do his routine ‘Welcome, Don’t Fuck This Up’ speech to the catnip only to find he doesn’t have the willpower to make it anything less than pathetic. So he spills apologies. And if a tear drop falls onto a soft green leaf, no one but them have to know.

 

When Crowley sits back up, still kneeling, Aziraphale’s touch returns. He lists to the side, leaning against the angel’s legs. Aziraphale takes his weight without complaint. The hand on his shoulder caresses the back of his neck, fingers finding comfort in repeated movements tugging at the shorter hairs at Crowley’s nape. He wonders about growing them out. He misses having long hair.

 

***

 

Aziraphale doesn’t try to sleep again for a week. They don’t talk about it. Aziraphale locks himself up in his study with books and cocoa. They only sit down for a meal together when Crowley listens to the angel explain away the loss of Eve to the Scotts when the couple come over for their weekly afternoon tea. Then again when Ben comes over to play with Eve on a Saturday. Ben seems less phased by it than Aziraphale and that’s when Crowley knows.

 

The next morning, Crowley stumbles into the kitchen to find Aziraphale silently crying over a ‘With Sympathy’ card from the Scotts. Something in Crowley splinters away but instead of the grief he’s been waiting for it’s annoyance lapping shallowly at his heels. He skips his normal wake-up drink and takes the card from Aziraphale. 

 

“Crowley--?”

 

“This isn’t just over the cat. Is it?”

 

“Crowley…” There’s an edge to Azirpahale’s melancholy.

 

It’s in the enforced distance between them. It’s the lack of sleep that’s translated to Crowley in a lack of eating. It’s everything in Aziraphale’s expression right now. 

 

Crowley refuses to sit in the chair Aziraphale pats next to him at the round kitchen table. Symbolic of unity. Equity. Some such shit. Crowley cinches his dressing gown.

 

“It’s not. Because I know you, angel. You’ve had stronger attachments than Eve for longer and you’ve never been this distraught for so long. So something else is up. What is it?”

 

Something closes up in Aziraphale’s eyes. Crowley is so sick of not knowing the specifics behind things. It’s always  _ something _ . Something unknown. Something no one tells him. Something he’s meant to guess correctly but can’t. Aziraphale wipes his cheeks and stares him down.

 

“Maybe,” Aziraphale says petulantly, “you’ve just never been here for it.”

 

Crowley’s jaw drops. He’s gaping like a fucking fish and he wants to slap the card onto the table, brute aggression. So he does.

 

“Right.”

 

He stalks upstairs and dresses, all the while trying to formulate the right string of syllables that will precisely put across just ‘how fucking  _ dare _ Aziraphale say that’. Accuse him ot that. As if Crowley’s whole mission in life hasn’t hindered on orbiting Aziraphale since the blessed Shakespearean times. As if Crowley has wilingly left Aziraphale to ever be discorporated or left him in emotionally agonising confusion again and again and again.

 

He needs his sunglasses which requires going back to the kitchen. Aziraphale doesn’t speak until Crowley takes out the keys to the Bentley.

 

“I’m sorry, Crowley. I shouldn’t have said that- I didn’t mean it, I swear. Crowley- My dear-  _ stop _ , where are you going?” His question wobbles. ‘Exactly’, Crowley thinks, ‘that’s how it feels’.

 

“For a drive.”

 

“Don’t leave. Please don’t, not over this,” Aziraphale pleads but he doesn’t make a move to stop Crowley and that speaks louder than any words.

 

“Are you going to tell me what ‘this’ is?” He hisses. “Or, wait, are you going to accuse me some more? Add a few more insults in this time?”

 

It’s Aziraphale’s turn to gawp and he does. More contrite compared to Crowley’s outrage but he’ll take what he can get. 

 

***

 

He gets in his car and drives down any turning he feels like at a speed that would’ve had Azirpahale clutching at his arm and the assistance handle.

 

‘Not been there’. Bullshit.

 

What on earth was the blessed angel thinking? Of course it’s awful that Eve’s dead. Yes he wants to turn back time and do things differently but he can’t. And he can’t do anything to help Aziraphale if Aziraphale doesn’t  _ talk _ to him. 

 

The threats from Gabriel and Beelzebub are nothing new. They got a few glorious months without any divine or occult pressures! That’s already more than he’d expected. Neither side can push them too far otherwise something will slip and both leaders will be inundated with questions as to how they couldn’t kill (truly, entirely, permanently kill) either of them. Bad publicity and all that. 

 

So what had Aziraphale in such a tiff? Making next to no attempts to hide his own depressive state (which isn’t a bad thing per say, Crowley would rather the angel didn’t hide things like that from him) but lashing out whenever Crowley asks what’s wrong? It’s infuriating. 

 

Only...it’s not the first time it’s happened either. The Library of Alexandria has him smelling phantom smoke. The plague. The World Wars. Even as recently as the AIDs crisis when he’d had to fly all the way to America to get Aziraphale to talk to him in between helping the sick. It had been too much in New York. Too many people the angel couldn’t help. Aziraphale had taken one look at Crowley, easily fitting in with those self-same men and women that Azirpahale couldn’t save, and had escorted Crowley home to England where he then kept tabs on him but covertly. Azirpahale had avoided Crowley each and every time because he had been afraid his presence would hurt or bring unwanted attention to the demon. 

 

Crowley lets out a guttural string of curses.

 

At the Library of Alexandria Aziraphale had been pushing Crowley to leave because Aziraphale himself had been furious and liable to lash out. 

 

In the plague years there had been visiting angels questioning Aziraphale’s overabundance of miracles. The same during the Wars and the Crisis. And now this.

 

“Phone,” Crowley snaps, making what should have been an impossible U-turn in a one lane road surrounded by fields, “Call Aziraphale.”

 

**_Calling Aziraphale…_ **

 

Crowley could imagine the house phone ringing. Could imagine Aziraphale not feeling like it was worth picking up. Focused more on a book or a cup of tea or bottle of wine. 

 

Aziraphale picked up. “Hello?”

 

“48 BC. 1349. 1915. 1941 and 1985,” he rattles off like they’re names for a firing squad.

 

A beat of silence and then: “Come home. Please.”

 

***

 

They’re back at the table. He’s coming to resent the table. For all its representation of peaceful unity and equality, Crowley feels very off-centre and far from peaceful. He sits in the chair next to Aziraphale’s. A glass of white wine in front of them each. Neither has been touched.

 

“You’ve been playing a shitty game, angel,” Crowley says quietly at last.

 

“It’s not a game, Crowley. I’d never treat you as a- a game piece.”

 

“Sure feels like it from here. With your strategic...whatever.” He gazes down at his ring. Covers it with his other hand.

 

“I thought you’d get sick of it.”

 

“Six thousand years, angel, and you still have no evidence to support that that will ever happen. In fact, you have a blessed ring on your finger that states that the exact opposite is happening.”

 

“I know.”

 

“If you know, why did you--”

 

“If you got sick of me you’d leave and they couldn’t touch you because God knows I can’t walk away from you, my dear.”

 

Crowley tugs at his hair, pulling unitl it hurts and scrunches his eyes closed behind his glasses. “What have I done to make you think  _ I  _ could, let alone  _ want _ to, walk away? Did you miss the part where I stood up to a fucking archangel for us? Did you also miss the bit where I did the same to a prince of hell? What part of all of this,” he waves his hand round, “makes you think I want to leave you?”

 

“None of it…” Aziraphale murmurs.

 

“Sorry, what was that?” he sneers.

 

“None of it,” Aziraphale snaps, “but, Crowley, you run away from threats like this. You tried to run away from the damned end of the world! With everyone having such a personal vendetta against us again, I’d much rather you just cut ties earlier than later when--”

 

“Together!” Crowley shouts, “I wanted to run away  _ together _ . Or did you not notice despite me asking you three times? Fucking hel- heav- fucking  _ somewhere _ , Aziraphale, I found you missing, dead for all I knew, because I’d come back again to  _ beg _ you to come with me.”

 

Aziraphale drops his gaze, looking like he’s genuinely remorseful over what he’s done only Crowley knows he isn’t because Aziraphale can really be a selfish bastard. Selfish enough to only stop and consider what he wants to protect and not what Crowley wants to protect. 

 

“Aziraphale. Look at me.” He does, albeit with a prissy glint in his eyes. “You’re panicking. You’re not in control and - put that finger down, I’m not done - you’re scared. I get that. I want to help. I do not want to leave you. The whole reason they’re taking an interest again is because we want to wear a pair of matching rings and have a bit of signed paper. It’s nothing else to them than an officiation of a threat they’re perceiving where there is none. That is not what it is to us and when they get that through their thick skulls they’ll leave it be or so help them.”

 

“Crowley…”

 

“ _ Shut it _ . Let me finish. You can try to push me away all you want, angel, but I’ll only go so far. I can give you space but I cannot just break this off. I’ve waited too long for this just for it to be scuppered by some bitchy, idiotic, self-important management memos. Got it?”

 

His breathing is a little rough now and at some point he’d folded his glasses onto the table to make more effective eye contact but his point is made. Loud and clear judging by Aziraphale’s expression.

 

“Got it.”

 

Crowley’s chest loosens. “Good. Anything else we should be hashing out before I tempt you to the sofa because I haven’t gotten to so much as sleep in the same bed as you for a week?”

 

Aziraphale laughs, exasperated and affectionate. “Only that I’m sorry. Truly sorry, my dear, that I pushed us to this point. I was panicking about whether it was worth it. Disrupting the peace for a silly whim of ours.”

 

“Zira,” Crowley says, reaching for the angel’s usually neatly cared for hands, “it’s not silly to want this. Or a whim. I’ve wanted to show you off as my husband since humans invented the term.”

 

“Oh.” Aziraphale says, smiling tentatively as he gives their joined hands a squeeze. “Can you ever forgive me?”

 

Crowley squirms a bit, to be expected with all this sincerity floating around, he thinks. “I suppose so. Though it’s being added to the list if you ever try this again.”

 

Aziraphale’s smile brightens tenfold. “Now, what was it you were saying about the settee, my dear?”

 

***

 

When Crowley had suggested moving to the sofa, he’d pictured them both catching up on some much wanted sleep. Preferably with a heavy dose of cuddling. Maybe some soft kisses. A lot of whispering explorations of skin on the way to nowhere. Aziraphale is clearly on a slightly different wavelength. Not that Crowley wants to complain about this.

 

It isn’t leading anywhere. Never does because they never want it to. Neither of them wants to make The Effort or feels like it’s necessary. ‘I mean,’ Crowley thinks as he traces Aziraphale’s spine, ‘it’s not entirely ruled out, it isn’t a set in stone Never’. But it’s also been six thousand years and he’s never felt the urge to make The Effort. And, as far as he’s aware, neither has Aziraphale. Though the angel’s current show of affection to Crowley’s neck could persuade anyone (other than Crowley, Crowley knows better) to the contrary.

 

By the time Aziraphale has moved back up to pepper kisses over Crowley’s face, causing the demon to playfully push him away (well, up, as Crowley is supporting all of the angel’s weight with his own body), Crowley is impatient to return the favour.

 

“My dear?” Aziraphale whispers.

 

“Yeah?” 

 

Crowley runs his fingers through the angel’s hair to mess it up further. Soft. So  _ soft _ . So much of Aziraphale is soft and Crowley adores that. 

 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says, tone suddenly serious.

 

Crowley looks into Aziraphale’s eyes, the resolute trust in them. The  _ faith _ . He knows what he means even before gentle fingers brush a loose hair away. Before those same fingers take their time gliding over the delicate skin under his eyes. Crowley’s eyelids flutter closed. His breath stutters in his chest when Aziraphale ever so softly kisses each of them. Then his temple. Then, palms cradling his face and tilting him ever so slightly up, his lips again. The heat that’s been lazily swirling in his chest all this time does a flip. Crowley kisses back, of course. Slowly. Taking his time and letting Aziraphale set the pace. It’s practically sedate. All sensual touch and response. Easy. Warm.

 

_ Comfortable _ .

 

Home.

 

“Well,” Crowley drawls when they pause for unneeded breath, “don’t let me stop you if this is how you want to show it.”

 

Aziraphale laughs, eyes closed as he drops his forehead onto Crowley’s chest. “You’re a daft old snake, my dear.”

 

Crowley hums, pinching the angel’s side in retaliation for being laughed at. “Eh, you’re the one who wants to marry me.”

 

A kiss to the hinge of his jaw. “That I do, that I do.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! <3
> 
> No beta, all mistakes my own
> 
> Prompts welcome here and on my writing tumblr [WordToTheRose ](https://wordtotherose.tumblr.com/) or come say hi on my main [Guardian-Rose-Petal](https://guardian-rose-petal.tumblr.com/)


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